


Rotted Canvas

by passionate_crimes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aging, Alternate Universe - Dorian Gray Fusion, Dark Sherlock, Fear of Death, Gen, Immortality, Portraits, Secrets, musings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 16:45:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7395493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/passionate_crimes/pseuds/passionate_crimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a monster under his bed.<br/>It's not quite as it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rotted Canvas

It’s only a matter of time.

He’s knows that John is already starting to suspect. With every passing day, he can see the man’s eyes grow weary as he counts his gray hairs, or notices a new wrinkle in the folds of his face, and the narrowed glances when he sees that Sherlock’s own hair has remained stubbornly black, with no creases on his face.

Sherlock has always been good at reading emotions, an art he’s perfected throughout the years, and he sees the annoyance, the jealousy in John’s face.

Which will someday become resentment. And then suspicion.

But he stays silent. He cannot give it away, not after all he’s worked for, all he’s sacrificed.

And that damned portrait gathers dust under his bed. The portrait his mother commissioned for him, all those years ago, despite it being such an odd and outdated practice, even then. He can remember looking at that fresh masterpiece, and _hating_ it, even in its glory, for all it represented, all that it told him…

Perhaps it had been foolish. But who could blame him? He had not bargained for this, it was not a conscious deliberation on his part! He just had desperately, _so_ desperately, wanted not to age. Not to see the terrors and pain that came with white hair and brittle bones.

It wasn’t his fault his wish came true.

And he’s dealt with the consequences of that wish, hasn’t he? He has lost friends, lost lovers, been forced to live in loneliness. He’s had to protect his secret, no matter the cost, which has led to certain deeds that he doesn’t like to think about, ever. _I had to do it_.

Except Mycroft. Baby Mycroft, the sweet child of the family, his darling baby brother, who caught on quickly. But Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to hurt the boy, not when those red, chubby cheeks were still fresh in his mind, even if he was more a man by then.

And that was when Mummy was alive, and he would not be able to live while watching her destroy herself with grief at his loss.

Mycroft knows, and plays along, throughout the years and the decades, changing their story as it grows fit. And Mycroft mocks and sneers at him for being so vain, for being so shortsighted, so _idiotic_. The taunts go on for years, as the man changes, and Sherlock stays the same.

He hated watching Mycroft grow old. So many times he wished to shove the man away, so that he did not have to watch as his sweet Mycroft’s hair receded, and his sight grew worse.

And maybe that should be enough for him to rethink his position, to set the clocks forward once more, and find a way to age once more. But no. God no!

When Sherlock dares to look at the portrait, and pull it from its dungeon under his bed, he couldn’t stand it. The man in the painting, the decrepit, old man, who was balding and wrinkled and stooped over. How could he allow himself to grow to be such a horror?

No, better to stay in this form! Better to remain young and beautiful, where he still caught the eye of both men and women. Mycroft was wrong, it was not idiotic to never age, it was resourceful! It was all he had!

But it’s only a matter of time before John catches on, before he finds that horrendous picture during one of his raids of Sherlock’s room. And then what will he do? He does not wish to hurt John, but what explanation would he accept? His reaction would be like Mycroft’s, to scold and shake his head, as if he were some naive child.

He would not understand, for at least John aged gracefully. The gray hair made him distinguished, the wrinkles gave him a jovial past, a history of smiles and raised eyebrows. No, Sherlock would not look so well, he’s seen it in that portrait. He could never join John’s ranks of the older men.

There was nothing left, other than to protect his secret. It did not matter how much he cared for John, or how nice it felt to have a friend beside him. Friends were inconsequential, as was the whole world, except for this. He would do what it took to keep that secret safe, even if it meant losing John.

In the meantime, he waits nervously, tensing and holding his breath each time John brings up how gray he is, or how he'll need glasses soon.

Because it’s only a matter of time before John finds out, and time is the only thing Sherlock has now.


End file.
